


you are not (on) your own

by kuro49



Series: thirty days of writing [7]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV), Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are reborn into this life as yourself.</p><p>You are also born as seven others, all with a life of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are not (on) your own

**Author's Note:**

> i have been meaning to write this au since i watched sense8 because i am still a loser for pr no matter what. here be my cluster of ppdc personnel :DD
> 
> based on the prompt: _one foot in another world._

 

 

You are reborn into this life as yourself.

You are also born as seven others, all with a life of their own. But that is not something you figure out until—

 

 

_Tanegashima._

You are Mori Mako. You have neither a father nor a mother, and you are living under your uncle’s roof. It is not like you are not loved but this is not a home.

The first time you see a member of your cluster, you do not know how to react.

He has blond hair and blue eyes, and there is something about him that reminds you of apple pie. Not the kind that you like from Aomori, the kind from that single store your father brings home after a business trip. It is the kind that you have _à la mode_ , and these words are not ones you are familiar with but you know it like you know the taste that is too sweet and fills your stomach up too quick.

He looks at you like you’re something special. And you don’t look down even though you feel unsteady on your feet.

You reach out, you brush the snow from his hair. You are standing before the gates to your university, the leaves are still so green on the trees.

It is spring but your fingertips come away wet and cold.

 

 

_Anchorage._

You are Raleigh Becket. You have a brother and a sister in the same way you have a father and a mother. Once here, now gone, and you have more holes in the shape of them than heart in your chest.

The smell of metal and rust is familiar, the taste of blood in your mouth is not.

The low blow directed towards your dead brother is something else altogether when the man spitting insults in your face claps a hand on your shoulder. Like you are supposed to be laughing along.

The one to stand in your place looks older even when he is not.

You do not know his name but you already feel like there is more than respect. You forget how to speak when it is your hand that moves but his strength that smashes your boss’ face down on the beer can. This is not an out of the body experience when he is you and you are him.

“Don’t you ever touch me again.”

It is his words in your voice.

You do not remember to tell him _thanks_ until he is already gone.

 

 

_Tottenham._

You are Stacker Pentecost. You have a mother and a sister and a best friend but a father who is dead. There are many things to be said but not much to be done. You do what you need to, and vengeance is the only thing that keeps you feeling anything other than an open wound.

“You’re going to need more than that, mate.”

You spin around because that isn’t any kind of accent you find in Tottenham. He isn’t anyone you figure to catch you at this.

“Building this big, better if you drench the place with gasoline first.”

He looks down at the lighter in your hand, you notice the freckles over the bridge of his nose. You look up at the—

The warmth is new, so is the sun bright above you. In place of the soak of London’s chill, there’s a man standing in a dirty grey Henley, long sleeves rolled up pass his elbows. His hair a very different shade of red than Tamsin’s.

“…Dad?”

You do not hear your own voice, and it is hardly a gut feeling to think that this is not about to be the last time.

 

 

_Sydney._

You are Charles Hansen. You have a bulldog that you love more than anything and a mum you never talk about. You also have a man that you call _dad_ on your better days and _Herc_ for all the rest.

“Charlie?”

You snap your head up and you see your father in the garage, the stench of cigarette smoke is gone but you still remember the feeling of a lighter in your hand, the initials of O.P. burning in the center of your palm. Your father does not smoke but his _did_.

There is a show of slight concern in how Herc furrows his brows but you never make it this easy for him.

“Like I said, it’s Chuck now.”

It is strained, at best, what you have with your father. The anger that twists is not new even though the sweater vest is very much so. He is looking at you through his glasses, and there is both understanding and confusion. This is not the first of your cluster that you meet, this might be his, but it still surprises you every time.

“You are not yourself.”

Your father tells you, watching you focus on empty space. Max is barking at your feet and these words are familiar, not just to your tongue.

“You don’t know who I am, old man.”

 

 

_Garmisch-Partenkirchen._

You are Hermann Gottlieb. You have both a mother and a father but you wish you had neither. You also have three other siblings but you still feel like you are alone in this world. It is a feeling that is beginning to rub out at the edge like chalk dust on your sleeves.

You do not understand how this is happening, these heads in your own, these hands as your own. You think in abstract mathematics where numbers are absolutes.

What you do with them though, that is not.

“Chuck,” He tells you, his dog leaving his/your fingers wet. You like order and a dog is not but you like this one. There is more to be said when he introduces himself with a smile that is all dimples. “Chuck Hansen.”

You give him _Hermann_. You don’t tell him you are a doctor in the sense that you have a PhD, you ask him where he is and you tell him where you are. You also tell him that his father isn’t so bad. At the very least, he is here, isn’t he?

You cannot say the same for your own.

 

 

_Vladivostok._

You are Sasha Kaidonovsky. Your family has only ever been Aleksis, little else has mattered outside of him. However, there is a slight possibility that you are going insane.

“Do you see him?”

He shakes his head.

“Them?”

He shakes his head again when you motion to what you believe is not entirely a figment of your imagination. You do not think you are capable of constructing something as elaborate as this.

“Big guy isn’t fazed by much, is he?”

You turn to the man you want to call Elvis with his hair sleeked back and you have to laugh at that. You fear the bright red to your mouth and all the metal on your hands might be too much for the good doctor but he hasn’t disappeared altogether.

“I can come back.”

“Sit down, Gottlieb.” You tell him when you drag a chair out, Aleksis coming to you out of habit. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Aleksis should probably be more concerned, sitting at a table with three other people, two of which he cannot see, but there is work to be done.

 

 

_San Francisco._

You are Tendo Choi. Choi being just about the most difficult character you know how to write in Chinese. You have very little family in town, just a grandfather you don’t see enough. In the circles that you run in, there are already enough strange characters that you know.

Just another Chinese face in China town is nothing to startle at.

“What is this place?”

There is a sense of wonder that no one native to here possess. You cannot help but answer him. “China town.”

“China?”

“San Francisco.”

“Like, _United States_?”

These questions remind you of the blond from Alaska, the one that works construction in the ice and snow. You wonder whether you should be feeling surprised but you have been to places you have never quite been to.

“You speak Chinese?” He asks, and you are reminded that you look more Peruvian than Chinese even though you only speak a little more Spanish than you do Cantonese. You shake your head at him. “Not enough to carry a conversation.”

“Then how…?”

“Beats me.”

You figure there are bigger things to worry about. Like how you must look, talking to yourself in front of Yeye’s apartment with a plastic bag of oranges in one hand. 

 

 

_Hong Kong._

You are Wei Cheung. You are one of three boys, and even though you are not identical, you are triplets and that counts for a lot. You are not the oldest even though you act like it most of the time. Jin will tell you, later, that you sounded hysterical. This is not the time for that though.

“There’s a little girl.”

You stop because you cannot be the only one seeing this.

“I’m not little.”

You will be fighting in an hour, you hardly need to be seeing a girl with bright blue highlights in her hair.

“And I’m not seeing someone else in an empty room.” You protest at her. You are not above admitting that you might be freaking the fuck out when you reach for Hu’s sleeve and grab his arm with what is a considerable amount of force instead. You blink but there she still is. 

“…Can I stay?”

Her name is Mako and you do not know her story. She also does not know yours or why you fight on the streets for money instead of getting a respectable job. But what you do know is that she looks like she is about to cry. Your brothers may be glancing between one another but this, you know how to react to.

“You can watch me fight.”

 

 

—Until that first breath you take, that very first inhale you all take as one, you are born into this life as yourself.


End file.
